We could have played other games,
ever so many on offer
whiling the distribution and dissipation
time might be
.
Yet “I” became,
constructing choices –
the parenting,
the poetry,
philosophy,
and family;
addiction,
restriction,
believing all the loving –
each complicity
.
To be
.
At least some things,
anything,
.
everything
one knows not what
.
but still
less (or more)
than nil.
Great grandeur of light
Your laughter tinkling its tent
A poet has died
Like a raven
We watch him pass
Rivers and trees
There’s probably more
Words
Are like that
– suspended –
Over silence
You’ve heard her
Read the dictionary…
Everyone disbelieves
Only I drink it in
– sufficiently –
Everyone’s doubt
Grand Canyons
are like
the unknown
we feel
of any other
(or each)
–
I put clothes on
have hairs trimmed
appear
and once again
guess at meanings
In other words
I “care”
insofar as an organism
hopes to live
Which I continue
to exhibit
because I think
I love
you
–
And no one knows
Not-knowing (yet)
What “love” is
“Yet” such an
Empire-ical promise
(some day our greed
will pull through) –
you hear it:
“I love you”:
that evil
devoted
inspired
and diabolical
urge, disturbed
and ravishing
–
As long as
we win something
we’re almost happy
I’ll map it out for you.
No, I’ll inscribe it.
47 cuts (myopic) in everything.
Unfinished. Inability to understand apparatus. Has not accomplished death.
Librarian, parent: attempts to track, preserve, and access – things precious, silent, useful.
Pseudo-scholar (any otherwise?), thinker: an inability to avoid pollution when considering or engaging relics of world.
If desired sexually, probably will… it depends.
Begins halfway.
Sometimes only in pieces.
Life is hard to figure. Mostly illegible, as well.
47 marks on anything.
Read what you can, listen.
Smells are.
Skin-shaped textures. Walks on land. Occasionally tree or canyon. Mountain, river, ravine.
As easy to trace as wind.
Whatever being.
Kiss for kiss. Breathing.
Something (someone?) called “melody.”
Hurts too.
.
Intimate uncertainty? Certainly not. Perhaps. She would know.
Maybe furry, fuzzy androgyny.
Offspring reveals: “Crow’s a Decomposer.”
.
Decomposer.
.
What is poet?
Said all things grow, cannot hold, to dust and such. Singing.
Some might remember.
Touch. Taste. Trying.
.
Loves deeply. Expects nothing but passing, passage.
Fabricates patterns.
Dances. Slowly. Grasslands. Prairie.
AND. OR. NOT. (every day. moment) +/-?
What equals?
.
Like erasure. Accumulation. Obscurity.
Sometimes.
.
Decomposer. Lover. Friend. Everenemy.
Anonymity.
.
“Love” (used, spoken, felt, lost, wished-for, pondered).
.
Language, landscape, living organism… perhaps that equals.
.
Sing “You Fucking Did It”
When does death arrive? Why?
.
Glossy haze = language, landscape, living organism.
.
Children. Music. Language. Elements of play.
Emotion.
Sex.
.
Stretched out. A boy and a girl (E. Whitacre). A boy and a boy. Girl upon girl. They and them.
Exchanging foam.
.
A poet working a way to an underworld.
Death is. (a “thing”). Exists. =.
.
Kansas: what gives silence for silence.
As easy to trace as wind.
.
Igloo. Cabin. Family farm.
DNA. Bacteria. Cancer(ous) cellular cell’d activity.
.
The living. The dying.
.
Unfinished undoing.
.
47 paces toward the dark.
.
Re-membering foam.
.
How life gets made. A ratchet, a sprocket, an engine and a wheel. Add water. Fuel to the fire. Desiccate.
.
Perhaps it will rain. A slight ritard. Some sounding quiet. Remediate.
.
Take 47:
Watching flowers blooming to dissolve. A capture.
Sight slated to dim. Shuffling ensues. The stoop.
In a chair nearby, another. More better for company. When alone.
Exchanging foam.
47 paces in the fog.
Take three, four, and so on.
.
Circle round. Loop back. Never again.
Erasure.
Easy to trace as wind.
.
Leaving lights on.
Reading words, far from men.
Lost facilities. The stakes.
Dwindle toward final.
The effort, the offspring, the progeny.
Prognosis.
.
47 accounts of the night and the wheel-well thickened with road.
Splashes the mill. Grinds crank. Pressures to turn,
turning back, away, toward.
Another.
47 gaps in the shawl. Inconnu.
With something like delight. How to stand before them.
Poeting down for underworld.
Looking back.
Slows.
Was there ever progress?
Thinks over.
Takes the hand.
Strikes the key. The 47th.
.
Saturate for stupid. Loses steps. Must wake.
A happy mess. Weighted results, dependencies, accumulation.
As easy to trace as wind.
Utilizes snow too much. The rain.
Abandoned places. What removes. The melt. What remains.
The unfinished. Undoing. Become.
.
For ‘I’ is a thing that breaks.
.
47 footprints from the hands. The notable.
Swirly ways of working. Feels like – .
Inspiration hopelessness. This language.
This living organism. Landscape.
47 miles to go. All the cracks and divets.
Bolt after bolt unscrolled as flesh. Laid out. Stretched out. Smoothed. Sagged. Ironed. Smelt.
Felt for quality. Caressed and examined.
The lonely wonder. Represent.
47 X x = ?
.
Confusion persuasive. Revelation / insight. Chords resolve. Dissonance.
Language + landscape + living. 47 measures.
Months go by. Chairs and couches filled by others’ beds. Warmth weighs.
Waits on wisdom. Depletion. Adventure as excited strain.
.
Poison intravenous. Copulating cells and fluids.
Ends of the guilty. Interpret unfinished systems. Dis-ease.
The long whine wail across the prairie. Animal manual. Wind wires rain.
What gets whispered and transcribed.
Stumbling toward the underworld. Looking back.
Eyes up, ocean bottom.
Some things are out of hand.
Like danger.
The grey and black. The dimming.
47 warnings. The morning comes.
.
Making it. Happens.
Diagnoses and analyses.
Shuffles, stumbles, strikes the keys.
Easy to trace as wind.
Chorded coagulation, confounding,
comprehending (very little, almost nothing)
language, landscape, living,
another note tunes the swing on the porch –
inconnu –
what’s wide open, open wide
.
Shrewd and undiminished.
Minimize = understanding.
A matter of scale,
for I am a thing that breaks.
.
47 slices of nothing.
To try.
Try to
re
member.
Stitching together the dismembered, again.
It is “us”? “That”? A substance? A trajectory?
A subject? A story? (Fable)?
.
What might re-member, and re-member what?
Sensations? Who? Events? When? Experiences? How?
Is re-membering an aspect of Why?
Moods?
Times?
Being?
.
Where are the members to be re-stored, re-gathered, re-composed, or freshly constituted?
.
That pre-(before)-fix (secured, pinned, stayed) “re-“. To do over, again, re-peat. Peat is a furry humus, a difficult detangling. Nigh impossible to dismember without caveat or faith. Some belief in categories or divisions, de-cisions, parts and wholes, composites and particles, atoms, scales, cells, waves or functions… no longer “peat.” How would one forge that again?
.
Moist and messy tangle, eons into bog…
.
I thought.
Thought “it” – “I”.
Knifeblade activity.
.
Peat. Re. Member(s).
.
Desire. (Mood? Emotion? “Drive”?).
.
Prompted to thicken. The caked, flaky, dry – toward some humid, muddy moor. A memory.
.
To re-member one must pre-fix. In order to carve members to append and rivet. Desiccate to gather. Continuous forgetting forging together. Organic? Decomposition’s ritard?
.
Where does one go for the matter of “parts”? Ingredients for concoction, for the rotten mixing and blend. A meaning dependent on decay.
.
What is it we spoil in re-membering?
.
Experiencing. Out of – perceiving – in to. Wherefrom, wherefore, this ‘out of’? And the in-to flows – ? The membering limn. The meeting-joints. The fields of grave. Are there objects? Is it obstacle? In-to-eruption? Happen-stance?
.
Vivisection for autopsy – our arbitrary blade. Figures cut. Marking the joins, indivisibly. Perception. To sieve-for. For what? For whom? In the mire.
.
Try.
Try to re-member without division.
Immersively, immanently, experiencing… without within, within without.
.
Re-peat.
Birdcall.
Morning.
Activity-signal.
Somewhere day arrives.
We are in bed.
Day neither comes nor goes.
Neither night.
We inhabit a single chair.
A reciprocal rebellion.
Atemporal, atopos.
The other.
The relation.
The kiss
that undoes the you, the me,
joining any separation
as touch
along with bodies of skin,
skinned together,
indeterminable
without one, another
within, without each –
a combinatory beast
where components are absent,
extended, present-ly,
be-coming
birdcalls and signals
dependent on immanent surrounds;
nothing undone,
anything in their crafty work
and wrestling,
Eriegnis, evental –
a pleasure and desire
formulating forms
without priors –
echoed and originary;
unpredictable, unknown;
tandem happenings
we sometimes describe
as love.
We tried, once.
Attempted an adjoining.
No one cared or cares.
It’s not a point.
THE point.
.
I never wanted it to mean anything.
It never has.
(I never wanted it to).
Never really thought it could.
It might.
It doesn’t.
It won’t.
Hasn’t.
.
The only point I perceive
Is our dismissal.
Evolution.
Another term we use for mortality.
.
Something hopeful.
Never helpful.
Just is.
The way of things.
.
I’m not here.
I’m not anywhere.
There are birds.
This Autumn has found very little time for sustained reading and writing, resulting therefore in meager offerings here. But I am finding jottings, thoughts, and notations in scattered journals that have somehow happened anyway. Please accept these little offerings as efforts to remain in dialogue…
Journal Entry
Why do we (at least some percentage of us) take such pleasure (or at least seem to relish) in dark and heavy sorrow, like longing? Grief, hopelessness – is it finitude and mortality that cause us to feel so at home in it? Our drowning womb, begun from a watery coffin?
The sweet, rebellious, anarchy of loving, passion, writing, painting, music…sex – whatever it is we do that works our death deeper in us, through ecstatic bursts that we respond to like life.
We all ways dying…from that first launch…that initial spark of convergence – our long elimination.
Praise for the Name what Remains
By the light of the last thing decaying,
Erosion, they call it,
a painful dwindling away
.
Inception that won’t return
Sand, soil, snow, wind,
some sort of passage
.
One-Way. Only.
Irreversible.
It is called.
.
Loss, we name it.
Lossness, lessness:
Simply change.
.
If time is an arrow
even in some infinite
loop and swerving traffic
.
I’m not. Nor are we.
The finite and fragile
Affected in the midst
.
Continuously undone.
And never remade.
(this is the last thing I find I’ve had time to attempt in writing for many weeks…)
after Bataille, Of Montreal
It began. It begins.
Damage.
What opens what humans call ‘the heart.’
.
Who is the author?
Where?
.
In the loss. Lessness.
What is…always expressed / exposed by what
CAN be taken…
What is stripped back, laid bare, stolen,
raped…
.
Then you know.
Both ‘you’ and a very strange sort of ‘knowing.’
.
THAT POINT:
[the werewolf]
that place, space, moment, experience:
HATE.
LOVE.
(=)
(equals)
.
The expansion.
Additive.
Infinite.
A mad undoing.
A ‘one’ coupled by LOVE-HATE (possible ferocities)
– angry peace –
– gentle tearing –
.
Avarice. Grace. Hunger. Gifts.
.
We get born.
We most certainly die.
(even if we never learn what ‘being born’ or ‘to die’ might be / mean)
.
Damage: how we…die with/it
: how we…end in it
.
We most certainly die.
.
This we know [somehow] without experiencing it.
Or even being able…
.
Death.
Always next.
Always next.
Always next.
(Regardless – truly regard-less)
of anything IN-between
I AM ALL WAYS DYING MY DEATH
(what might ‘living one’s life’ seem?)
I happen to be singing imagined limits
(All I do not know)
.
Questions and conundrums
NOTHING.
Ends and means:
DEATH.
-easily a kind of glory…
…inevitable
…insatiable
DECAY.
.
Guilty.
BIRTH (whatever could be meant by that) = DEATH. DECAY.
(It began. It begins).
-What opens, happens, what humans call ‘the heart.’
We most certainly die.
DEATH.
(Most certain)
(The wonder : : : : something is born)
always
all ways
in order to…
…DIE.
Irascible, inevitable, indivisible, ineradicable ends.
Cheers Death
‘you’ (nothing)
always win.
If ‘winning’ could ever look like that, this…
…end(s).
once its begun, it began, it begins…
…endings, ends, the end.
– always already there –
always already here
“between appear and disappear”
…still seems
to occupy us
as an open question
who (yet) knows
what language means?
I love/d you.
What more is wanted
ever?
With all of its not
mattering, like changing
seasons, world
going on. A hawk
(or owl) shrieks
‘beauty’
We ask again
at the canyon,
the peak, the abyss,
And I say simply
‘You are beautiful,
Thank you…
therefore I love you.’
Nothing meaning
but some report,
some expression –
Elementary assignment:
This is why I’m alive.
Possessives and plurals,
the mysteries remain.
http://www.schirn-peace.org/en/post/marcus-steinweg-notizen-zur-liebe/
“Weren’t there any words that she accepted more willingly? Any that diverged less from what she was thinking?”
-Maurice Blanchot, Awaiting Oblivion–
There have been many hers,
some promise of connectivity
or commerce
(perhaps promise is too much,
perhaps desiring is more
accurate).
In other words, and
many of the same
from time to time
over time
the process equals =
it is hers –
my strands cannot reach,
meaning cannot knot,
meeting grown unable…
…
Ellipses…
continuance and breakage
characterizing in-between;
a trailing-off, a dwindling,
leaning toward the open –
deletions and erasures, a clearing of a space.
Again
and
Again
and Again
Again…
“perhaps because the first words
say everything / He decided
to begin
again
from there” (Blanchot).
We can know
the first word is
“Here.”
[After-words?]
Again
and
Again
and Again
Again
“Begin.”
He thinks that
it belongs
to her,
it is hers,
all of them;
In other words
are there any words
that diverge less…
that would not
initiate ellipses…
-the crossing
-the forking
of roads-
Here.
Again.
Begin.
– each eviscerating concoction…
clarifying conundrum,
each undone doing…
[doing undone].
Not quite correction,
no improvement, evolution,
no repeat and never same,
inceptive destruction…
He names it “failure”
“recurrence”
He says it is the “here”
of meeting
inducing the there of separation,
of potential gain
and irreparable loss.
“Here” is where it begins
Again…
and ends,
alwaystime…
It is hers.
Colluded
and conspired.
She is never wrong
to say
it is his.
This Here.
Again
and
Again.
Begin…
…until finally…
Fascinating people and interesting things.
For Orthodox Christian Men Discerning A Vocation
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